Then a satchel washes onto shore.
Though you half-recognize it–a slumped humanoid satchel from some distantrecent past–it’s not the familiarity that quickens your blood, upsets your bowels. It’s the shift: something new. Finally.
You approach warily and tentatively touch your fingers to its exterior. The fabric is dripping, the drawstring almost rotted through. Patience. Lift it gently, set the satchel near the fire to dry, but not too close: elevate it atop two stones, let the air circulate. Sit back, legs crossed, and consider it. What does it mean, you start to think, but then you catch yourself–enough with thinking, with meaning. Just … be.
As if on cue, storms rumble in the south. The clouds spread like a spill over the lid of hte ocean, and tonight the stars are gone. You munch fish eyes for dessert, and over the firelight, you continue to consider the satchel. In the middle of night, unable to sleep, you jump from your shelter, unable to wait any longer. You tear the satchel open, you need to see what it is, to listen to this message from beyond.
You reach your hand in and feel, wrapped in careful cloth, a round object with handled end. Your arm trembles, as you lift the wrappings away, and the sandy shore begins to patter with rain.
Of all damn things. A mirror.
Dare you turn the mirror toward you … ?
Or do you understandably hate symbolithematic moments and just chuck the mirror back into the sea?
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